Whisper
by Raspberry-Caramel-Desires
Summary: Black, red, then white: when a country is left in silence, even the faintest whisper can ring with hope. Manhattan Project fic, America finding broken Japan. Oneshot. R&R.


**Title: **Whisper

**Summary:** Black, red, then white: when a country is left in silence, even the faintest whisper can ring with hope. Manhattan Project fic, America helping Japan recover.

**Warnings: **Rated T for dark themes (i.e. mentions of broken Japan, and mentions of death, though nothing explicit) and lots of angst

**Notes: **Finally! My first APH fic! I've been in this fandom for quite a while as a simple observer (read: dirty lurker) so I'm pretty proud I managed to actually contribute.

Also note: Hoo-boy. I was in a melancholy mood when I wrote this. It is super angst-tastic. There's a lot of symbolism, most of which is pretty obvious, but I think it's the most fun when left open to interpretation. I'm also trying a new, more poetic writing style. Well, enjoy!

* * *

The wind blows through the trees, the only evidence of life in a still world too scared (or too scarred, perhaps) to breathe. The wind ruffles the hair (black, whether it was natural or covered in soot, who can tell?) of a young man with closed eyes.

_They've been closed for a long time._

Time stopped being meaningful-the days wasted away so fast, but each second seemed to last forever.

(Yes, time had wasted away, and he had wasted away with it.)

It has been a while, but he still feels the stabbing agonies in his left arm and right side, and he still feels-still _suffers _the endless waves of radiation poisoning that leaves so many (and births so many, which is even more haunting) scars.

There are ashes everywhere.

They dust his cheeks and coat his body, alighting on his eyelashes and settling in his hair. They bleach his skin and leech his body of life-**not that he has much left to give.** The ashes are oppressive and they whisper as they take their place on his cold skin.

_They seal his eyes shut_.

They seal his mouth shut too, although they don't even touch his lips. He can't speak, and his world is left in a cold, indefinite silence.

It wasn't always silent.

When he was first hurt, the people's reactions were black with shock, but that only lasted a moment before the red, the crimson of horror, a bright stain that colored the world with pain.

And then there was the silence.

The land was laced with tears and ran with tears (because they're the same, really), the rips left unstitched and the salt water washing away the red. The red's almost gone-close to invisible now, but **it's still there**_**. **_It's still staining the people with memories (those that they wish to forget but can't let go).

And the red is covered in white, white ashes.

_The land turned black, red, then white. _

Black for the shock, red for the horror, white for the death.

Black for the endless night, red for the blood, white for the silence.

White for surrender.

White for the ashes.

The man is too cold to shiver and too broken to move. Colors flash before his closed eyelids, black, red and white. The pain is torturous, **but he lives through it every day**.

The man sits in his corner alone.

* * *

Another day (or two, or three, who's keeping count?) passes, bringing with it nothing but a higher body count. The numbers are slowing down, but their deadly climb still hurts with every passing digit.

The door whispers as it opens. This hasn't happened for some time after the surrender, but the man can't even lift his head.

Loud footsteps echo through the house as they rush towards the man, footsteps created by big, firm boots. The man (he can tell it's a man, and one he recognizes, though he can't say why) who entered the house's breath hitches as he kneels in front of the dark-haired man.

And then the new man grasps the broken one firmly and _**opens his eyes**__._

_And the world is awash with color_.

Not the stark world of back, red and white he had imagined, but a fairyland of greens and purples, pinks and oranges. It's a watercolored painting drawn in broad strokes, swirls of color and life.

Golds, like the swoop of hair that falls on the new man's forehead and the wonderful feeling expanding in the broken man's chest.

Blue, like the brilliant azure of the new man's eyes behind bright glasses catching the last rays of sunlight, glistening with unshed tears of compassion.

And the blonde hides his face in the dark-haired man's neck, whispering breathless apologies and faint regrets.

_And his tears wash away the ashes_.

The blonde man leans in close, and the dark-haired man can **hear his heartbeat**, a wonderfully steady thrum of life and hope and empathy, and while he can't find it in himself to forgive the man just yet (a broken man can't be fixed in an instant, no matter how many colorful bandages are plastered on) he knows that in time, he will.

Amber eyes meet sapphire, and an understanding passes through the two, through a twisting, golden link as delicate as glass, and as soft as a whisper.


End file.
